Worn out

Whenever anyone has asked what my highlight from me and my girl's recent trip to London is, i've hesitated in my response. Quite honestly, i could pick many favorite memories from my inaugural visit to the Square Mile. We saw so many things: gloriously old museums, eccentric and unique boutiques, my favorite soccer team's hallowed grounds, a great assemblage of pubs, and much more. But, it is not the sheer number of great attractions that gives my answer to their question pause. Instead, it is the "inappropriate" nature of our vacation's most treasured souvenir:

Our attendance at Torture Garden's London Fetish Ball

Some of you may remember (and the naughtiest of you might even chuckle) my post about the preparations i needed to go through in order to secure our attendance of the Ball. The biggest stress that followed once our latex goods were ordered and delivered was safely packing them into our luggage prior to our departure and then handing them over to the ever dutiful TSA. I had serious concerns this tidy little investment in rubber gear would find it's way into the back screening rooms at JFK airport, and never see the light of day again. What a sigh of relief that came rushing out of my lungs when i gathered our valises from the luggage carousels at Heathrow and saw the cable tie i put on each zipper completely in tact.

We spent the day of the event caroming from one parlor after another of feminine delicacies, finishing our tour in the neighborhood where my cherished football team plays and also where my dear friend who helped us get into the Ball resided. Originally, the plan i'd arranged with my comrade was for my girl and i to bring over our whole get-up, and then we'd all get ready. This sounded like a lot of fun, but ultimately impractical, when i considered how many different girly accessories and tools we'd have to haul from our hotel to accomplish my doll's latex transformation. We settled for splitting a pizza while watching a soccer match - which was the perfect antidote for my excited nerves in anticipation of the evening's festivities - and then my girl and i made our way back to our West London accommodations.

Getting ready for fetish events is always such a thrill, because i adore witnessing my girl's metamorphosis from pretty, dainty gentlelady to sexed-up, slick, fetish vixen. However, this time was different, because i was making my debut sporting the very textile i've spent many years obsessing over when worn by my feminine counterparts. When it came time to polish and shine my clothing, it sunk in how real my immersion into this event was to be. I was buffing the slick latex so that my own attractiveness would stand out - such an overtly sexual and aggressive gesture i'm not accustomed to making (i'm usually much more subtle in the expression of my appearance) - and soon i felt my own transformation start to unfold. By the time we got the call from the lobby downstairs that the cab we'd ordered had arrived, a fervent energy pulsed through my body, intensified by how turned on both of us were when we looked at eachother. Instead of being coy, we walked through the lobby of our hotel (which was surprisingly busy for that late hour), with purposeful strides and direct eye contact with anyone gawking at our shiny figurines parading across the marble floor.

The spectacle of the Fetish Ball was everything my friend had billed it out to be. This was not going to be like the hugely disappointing events we'd attended here in the States. Top to bottom, the multi-level, former cathedral swam with gorgeous people - both male and female. Hundreds of tightly-clad, latex seductresses slithered and ground their hips to the bombastic beats of the DJ's house music. Vampiric goths, naughty nurses, sinful nuns, pretty candy-coated pixies, and breathtaking pin-ups roamed the grounds, providing your's truly with a sensory feast i'd be able to munch on during the many days following.

The air hummed with a sexual sizzle, that only lowered and deepened into a guttural growl once we stepped foot into the area known as "the Dungeon". It's here that my latex dolly got the most attention - the kind of attention (and my subsequent reaction) that requires another entry, all to itself.

My collection

From a very early age (oh dear, here we go again. Another one of Deity's posts about how he was as a kid - 'fraid so), my favorite places in the world to spend my time were museums. I loved their quiet, church-like solemnity. People spoke in hushed tones, whispering, as if the artifacts were sacred relics (some in fact were) that shouldn't be disturbed. And, contrary to what most must assume, it wasn't just art museums I adored. No in fact. It was all museums. Natural History museums. Transit museums. Military museums. Art museums. Sports Museums. Hell, I'd even go to a toothpick museum, as long as there were objects, on display preferably (and actually a very important detail) behind glass cases.

It turns out that this is a rather prevalent part of my psyche. I've always loved collecting things: stamps, business cards, soil - you name it, i would find a way to gather and archive it. Whatever the collectible, the most important component was the container I kept it in. I preferred that it was see-through. Something about looking at the contents, captured, yet protected and preserved gave me peace; as if i were relieved that they couldn't get away but also, nothing could get to them. I thrilled at the task of cataloging these individual specimens, taking great care to label each with the contents that lie inside. But just as enjoyable was my process of orderly and meticulously putting these treasures away.

I liked knowing I had these little bundles stored in my closet or stacked meticulously on my shelf. By possessing them, I took on the very serious role as their caretaker. I looked after them, made certain they remained organized and cleaned and gave them copious amounts of my attention. I felt total ownership of them, and as a result they were completely and totally mine.

A complete dick

I think with my dick. That's what I'm told. That's what is expressed to me countless times, over and over.

"Stop thinking with your dick."

What exactly does this mean? I know what they intend it to mean when they say it. Stop allowing your phallus to influence or overpower your decisions. But, it's ignorant to expect a man to not give great deference to a part of his anatomy that has caused so much of his life. From an early age, males, whether they are gay or straight develop a very private relationship with their penis. Some will end up sharing a portion of this relationship with others, some will keep it in complete isolation from everyone. However the male decides to handle this, this appendage remains at the very center of their self, and cannot be easily extricated or ignored.

In order for this to be an accurate statement, i think it should be rephrased as:

"Stop thinking with and about your dick."

I'm not sure when i first thought of my penis as a dick (a sexual unit), and i'm not sure i've quite come to think of it as a cock (either as a word or as the trashy term used in erotica/porn). I do know, however, that i spend a great deal of time thinking about it in some fashion. Sometimes i try to remember what it was like before this fleshy handful transformed into a weapon of mass insemination. It's odd to me that i've had only two or three conversations with other (straight) men about our penises, when i'm certain we'd have plenty to say. For the most part, it is seen as homosexual-esque if you were to engage in a discussion about your genitals, and most men will feign complete revulsion at the topic - which i don't get because i find the topic ENDLESSLY fascinating (of course these same men will prattle on and on about bowel movements and their flatulence).

I enjoy a good meal. I feel rejuvenated when i get to spend time outdoors being active. I would even say that music provides me with tremendous amount of stimulation. But without hyperbole, none of this compares to attention paid to my penis. I adore - ADORE - masturbation and sex (and they are separate but equally thrilling activities). In a typical day, i will handle my penis on average of about an hour, whether it is just a quick rub/check-in/adjustment, or if i'm pulling it completely out of my pants and giving it my full attention. I think about it when i'm sitting in my office chair, when i'm on the train holding onto a pole, or when i reach into my pocket to fetch my wallet. It doesn't take much to cause an erection. A certain smell. The sound of a pair of heels clicking on the sidewalk. Even something as simple as a brief embrace from my girl.

Frankly, i've had more worthwhile and meaningful experiences when i've given every little ounce of my energy and thought to my penis. When i channel all of me towards and through it, such tremendous liberation and freedom overwhelms me, i couldn't imagine it never being a major player in my decisions.

Wherein Deity gets stalked, Part I

Many years ago, i created a profile on one of the more prominent personal sites for those seeking an SM relationship. I was very curious, as online dating was just starting to really pick up steam, and thought it would be fun to venture into the kinky partition. I spent a little time filling out my profile, not much, but enough to get across the message that i wasn't seeking a "slave or a sub" nor was i needing the girl to refer to me as "Master" or "Lord" or "Sir" anything. I remember ploughing through the checklist of interests with rapid concentration. You had to indicate whether you'd be interested in receiving or giving of the particular activity (i.e. spanking) as well as indicating your experience level (never tried but curious; very experienced; or completely avoid). Without knowing what this said about me (because i didn't spend a great deal looking at other folks profiles), the manner in which i answered these questions gave my profile a specific expertise level. Apparently, i was advanced in my deviancy.

I enjoyed sampling the number of local girls (i was only looking for any interaction with someone who lived in my city) who largely expressed their (mostly) reluctant interest in being dominated by a man. This made sense to me. If you were reluctant to pursue a kinky connection, it was pragmatic to test the waters in a relatively safe online environment. But, i didn't completely understand what these girls meant by "being dominated by a man" and still don't understand what this means when i encounter this in the naughty blogosphere. I consider myself a dominant male, but i've never seen my behavior as dominating. When it has felt right, i've seen my behavior as guiding, mesmerizing and arousing. I didn't know if these girls were just looking for a much more pushy version of the typical spineless, insecure male they were used to being with, or if indeed they sought the deep connection i've found when reducing a girl to an object.

I found a good number of girls to be outright enticing as presented through their profile, but chose not to contact any of them. Content for now to just act as a voyeur, i logged in every few days to monitor the activity. I'd been on the site for about a week before i received my first message. It was adorable in its frenetic brevity. She was very timid and unsure, but she expressed a nearly uncontrollable urge to reach out to find out more about the man i described myself as. We had a few conversations, and it became clear that my desires were much more extreme than perhaps she wanted at the moment. We parted ways in a pleasant manner - her wishing me luck in my search, me wishing her to be safe and to guard herself diligently. Most of the exchanges (all initiated by the girl) i had on this site proceeded like this, with me at the end wishing to secure each of these novices against what i observed as unexperienced and misguided trolls posing as "Dominants".

I'd nearly given up hope on ever finding a reasonably entertaining and challenging plaything, when out of nowhere Pamela [not her real name] dropped me a very reticent and cautious line. I'll never forget the exact wording of her note:

I'm not even sure why i'm on this site or even why i'm writing to you, but you sound unlike any other man i've found here, and even if you weren't that refreshing, and despite the fact you don't post a pic of yourself, i can't help but get the sense that you are an incredibly attractive person.

I sat on her message for a few days. I liked that it was just mine. I hadn't responded yet, so, to her there was no real existence of me. Just a profile. Whereas i got to sit and read those words and couldn't help but feel their genuineness and their utter flattery. She showed intelligence, confidence, but also a deep vein of curiosity in just her words. I contemplated not even replying, ditching the site completely, but then i abdicated and wrote her back.

I wish now that i hadn't.

The difference being

"I'm not like the other boys."

-Michael Jackson, in his video for the song Thriller

To follow this idea of us all wanting to be valued and accepted, this abuts right up against this feeling i've long held about myself. My difference. I'm not like others. I don't fit in and never really have. Even amongst my small nuclear family, i am set a part from them. My siblings and i get along, but they do not understand me. We are night and day and many cannot believe we grew up in the same house. I don't resemble my parents, nor do either of them feel connected to me. Both of them have said, in their own way, that they felt like i could've been adopted. Our world views are dramatically different. Even our political ideologies couldn't be more opposite.

Amongst my friends, very few of them know the extent of the power exchange that defines my relationship with my girl. Even then, i cannot speak to any of them with much detail before they quickly try to change the subject. If we venture outside of the horizon of my kink, i hold opinions on most topics that are not warmly received or come across as controversial. In large part, the massive contents of my thoughts remain stuck inside my head (except those i journalistically share here or other places).

Acquaintances have always perceived me as odd. A character. Not normal. And for most of my life, that is in fact the umbrella under which i roamed. When compared to others in my same gender, i haven't found much kinship there either. They hold different priorities (watching and talking about sports all of the time). Their reaction to the passing female stranger ("oh, i'd do her.") is incredibly incongruent with mine - i want to stare at her beauty, study it, possess it, but rarely is it my desire to fuck it.

As a result of this, i have developed very thick skin. It wasn't always that way. As a young boy, i was accused (take note that i use this word) by others of purposely acting against the norm: "You just like being different." I became immediately defensive at this accusation. I swore it wasn't an artificial cloak i wore, but they had me convinced that my difference was faked. Rather than attempt to silence the outcastedness, i just withdrew deeper inside. It was these times i turned to that young man that reflected back at me in that mirror on my floor.

In those times, i didn't see my difference as an asset. It was my handicap. It was what kept me from being a part of the world around me, and more importantly, finding what i needed to satisfy my appetites. It took a great deal for me to realize the worth in my deviant mind, and liberation finally came to me when i first explored SM with a girl i was dating.

Now, when i think about what so many misguided children used to say to me "You just like being different," i smile. It's true. Wow, how i wish i could've felt that way then.

In reflection

Throughout my life, i've often heard from others that i'm starved for attention. In many ways, this is true. When i'm at a party, i tend to be the one regaling everyone with stories and and having them in stitches. At lunch, the subject, if it's not on something general that we all can discuss, is usually about me and some aspect of my life. In public, i make sudden loud noises when i stretch, i don't mind singing a song at high volume, and i'll goof on my girl and say something like "No, i will NOT kiss you on the subway. God!" very loudly. When i was younger, i was frequently nominated to represent our class in school-wide speaking events and had very little problem presenting in front of large groups. I enjoy the spotlight, in fact when in it i feel a very similar sensation as when i'm being served by someone. But, to say that i'm attention starved, i'm not sure i agree with that statement. In fact, when you put that in the framework of my power exchange, it doesn't fly. I quite frequently give a great deal of attention to my girl - certainly it is in the service of my appetites, but it is also servicing her appetite to submit. It is her rump i spank, her dress code and look i manage, her limbs i bind, and her entire body i cocoon. This is not attention that is reciprocated. All of this had me pondering what exactly it means to seek someone's attention.

Is it merely just someone becoming your audience? That wouldn't seem to be enough, really. If they just stood there, blankly staring at you, not offering any emotional response or feedback. We want kind words, pleasing and complimentary words. We want validation, we want applause. We want to see evidence of joy created in the person, but even that isn't the root of what we seek. We want to know that we offer this person, the world, something valuable, intangible, unique. What are we really after?

Our reflection.

Attention from someone is the kindest mirror we could possibly encounter. I remember as a kid, i used to have a notebook-sized mirror i would take off my wall and put on the floor and pretend it was a doorway to another world through the ground. And i would visit with this person, and ask them what was in their world, and i would eventually come to learn that the world in that looking glass was the idealized version of the world i lived in. The "me" in the mirror was giving me the kind of attention i so often sought because he was ultimately validating me - in fact resembling me identically. I'd laugh at myself, make silly faces, but where i really enjoyed these moments was when i stared into the reflection of my eyes and felt a deep connection with that "self".

Maybe that's what attention gives us - a connection. Despite all these new, digital ways we can chain ourselves to people diluting our lives of interpersonal interaction, it hasn't made that desire to connect any easier or any less potent.

Routine

My body doesn't react well to heat. Neither does my mind. It invades the crevices of my brain like a slowly, slithering droplet of water that rots away the wooden foundation of a house. I get irritated. I'm cranky. Most unfortunately, intimacy with my girl suffers. I've tried my best to wrestle with these annual demons, hoping to not let this weather that i cannot control get the best of me. As a result of this struggle, my girl's weekly maintenance has not materialized while the humidity super-saturated the air. I'm not proud of this, and sought to correct the absence of her corrections.

---------------------------

"What are you hungry for?" I asked her while leaning against the doorjam of our living room.

"Oh, gosh. I don't really have a taste for anything," The air wasn't moving in the apartment, and it was very easy just to remain stationary. I could tell she was fully sedentary - a state not conducive to her having a preference for much of anything. "Well, what do you want?"

"We really need to address a more important matter first." I gave her a quick wink with my left eye.

"You mean - oh...yes, spanking. How do you want me?"

I turned and left the room, walking back along the hallway, "Come to the bedroom - and remove those damn socks."

The socks were off before she entered the dark chambre. I guided her to the end of the bed, positioning her differently than what she's used to. Instead of her gripping the footboard, i laid her body over it so that her torso rested completely on the mattress, and her feet anchored to the floor. Lifting her dress, i took note that she'd also already removed her panties. The contrast of her pale, white mounds in that dim setting immediately aroused me.

"Please lay as still as you can," I told her, as i abandoned her backside for the bedside table. Pulling out the drawer, i retrieved the trusty - and hated - wooden brush. I developed an immediate kinship for this device, it being a long time since we last collaborated. He felt confident, secure, and solid in my hand. I brought him to her right buttocks, and stroked her snowy skin. My ears delighted at the familiar sound, rough abrading sighs of bristles sanding her cheeks. Over and over. Stroke. Brush. Burr and shine. The electricity of my movement soon came alive in her flesh, filling the area with a vibrant rosiness. I flipped the brush over and pattered her ass with a chorus of swats, inviting more of her blood to rush onto the corporal scene. When finally my favorite cherry color satisfactorily covered her derriere, i asked her for a number.

"12...?"

It being so long, i felt a lenient ambassador speaking on her behalf inside my head. I took his advice into consideration and made my determination.

"16 - and don't forget to count."

I placed the brush on the bed, near enough so that he didn't miss the festivities. I gave the air a few moments while i flexed my naked palm. It too hadn't been called upon for awhile. Pulling back my arm, i landed the first swat upon her left cheek. Because of how i'd positioned her over the metal frame, upon impact, her mid-section slammed into the black scrolled steel, magnifying the pain. Perfectly as designed.

I greeted her ass cheeks with an assortment of strokes - a collision of the full meat of my hand across her flesh; a downward onslaught from the top thirds of my fingers; a wicked, lightning-quick whip of just the tips of my fingernails (easily the most painful). Her response was remarkable. In a very short time, i spent my 16 lashes. Both of our breaths spilled rapidly into the atmosphere. I desired more.

Grabbing her by the hair, i pulled her up from the bed to face me, then pressed with both of my hands upon her shoulders, moving her to the floor. Her mouth opened and instantly accepted my rigid phallus. Hungrily, her head bobbed up and down, knowing that at the end of this, her full rewards awaited. For a moment, i held her head still, allowing her mouth to just nurse on the flesh gagging it. Finally satisfied with this act, i pulled out with a salivary pop. I lifted her from her knees and quickly swung her, stomach-first, over to the side of the bed. Without discussion, she opened her legs with an inviting lift of her rump. Filled with guttural excitement, i entered her from behind.

"Say: Thank you for fucking me."

Her voice raspily complied,"Thank you for fucking me."

"Repeat it. Don't stop." I continued to pound into her hind quarters, over and over.

"Thank you for fucking me."

"Thank you for fucking me."

"Thank you for fucking me."

"Thank you for fucking me."